


Peanuts

by Kerkerian_StopYulin



Series: Sherlock, John and Mary [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adjusting, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:22:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerkerian_StopYulin/pseuds/Kerkerian_StopYulin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Mary have become parents, and there's just one thing which bothers the new father: that his best friend has kept remarkably out of the picture recently. Set post-Reichenbach and also contains Gladstone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock and am not making any money by writing about it.

 

 

**Peanuts**

Part 1

 

 

John Watson woke up when someone gently shook his shoulder. Startled, he jerked upright only to be met with an affectionate smile from his wife: "You fell asleep in the rocking chair again."

"Oh," tiredly, he rubbed his eyes, "I've really got to stop doing that." His gaze automatically strayed over to the cot in which his daughter was sleeping. He had rocked her back to sleep after she had woken in the night, and hadn't been able to resist watching her for a bit after he had put her back down; she was only two weeks old, but she was already firmly holding his heart in her tiny hands.

He never tired of looking at her; the moment he had been allowed to hold her for the very first time had done something to him, had made him realize how insanely wonderful life could be, how precious the small being in his arms was. She was small yet strong, and holding her made John feel proud and, at the same time, helpless. How was he supposed to protect such a marvel? How was he going to provide her with everything she needed?

He later read that such insecurities were quite normal in new fathers, which made sense; once you realized what had really happened, that you had actually been part of creating a life, the responsibility which came with it was enough to bring you to your knees.

It certainly was doable, John figured, it had to be, since so many others had managed as well.

 

Mary was admirably relaxed once she had recovered from birth; even after they had been released from the hospital, she adjusted to the new rhythm her daughter was setting with remarkable ease. Whereas John was in a constant tizzy the first few days and went to check on the baby every ten minutes when it slept, making sure it was still breathing, Mary was calm and seemed in control of the situation.

During the following days, John slowly begun easing up as well. He realized that he didn't need to worry every time the baby snuffled in its sleep, and that the little girl wasn't half as frail as it seemed. Her lungs for example were marvellously strong, as she had just proven that night. John didn't mind getting up, on the contrary; it was nearly ridiculously soothing to hold the small being that was his daughter, to cradle her close and feel her warm, compact body.

 

"Let's get you back to bed," Mary now said, smiling at him once more. "Maya will still be here in the morning."

* * *

John lay awake for quite some time after they had lain down again; he still had that pure, amazing baby smell in his nose, and his heart was beating faster again. Two weeks and it still took him by surprise at times, the fact that he was a father awing him to no end. He was happy in a way he'd never have anticipated. The prospect of marrying some day, of buying a house and having children and a dog had never held that much appeal for him, and yet now, he'd not change it back for a gazillion pounds.

 

The only thing which was bothering him was his best friend. Sherlock had not seen Maya yet, and it irked John considerably that he had not shown any interest in the baby so far. He had written a text, congratulating them, but that had been it. It was disappointing, to say the least.

Mary had of course noticed her husband's annoyance, and it hadn't taken her long to guess what it was about.

 

"There you are," she said on the following morning, shoving the paper over to John, "this is why Sherlock's been _awol_."

He was in the headlines: CONSULTING DETECTIVE STRIKES AGAIN it read, followed by a rather enthusiastic article, detailing how Sherlock helped the police to break up and arrest a drugs ring, apparently only gaining the vital piece of information by solving a cold double murder case from ten years ago which, as it turned out, had after all been related to the group involved. Or rather, John realized upon reading, not so much detailing as using a lot of words to say surprisingly little.

"He's outdone himself once more," John murmured while he regarded the picture: an old photo of Sherlock, fortunately sans the deerstalker.

 

Mary watched her husband closely while she fed Maya; she knew that he regretted not being able to help Sherlock as much as usual, especially now. She had never made him choose between her and his friend, though; it was his own decision.

"Yep," John said now, going to find the phone, "I'm going to call him."

"John, it's-" _seven in the morning_ , Mary wanted to say, but John was already on the stairs, Gladstone on his heels, and she didn't dare to shout so as not to frighten the baby.

"Poor Sherlock," she murmured, smiling at her daughter, who waved her little fist at her. "He's probably not had much sleep."

* * *

She was right. When Sherlock answered the phone, he sounded groggy and a little slurred: "John?"

Only now did it occur to John to look at his watch. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. I'll call you back later."

"John, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Okay." With that, Sherlock hung up.

After staring at the phone a little dumbfounded for a moment, John couldn't bite back a laugh.

* * *

It was Sherlock who called him back around noon.

"Congratulations," John said, "I read about you in the paper." Which sounded wrong, somehow. Distant.

Sherlock huffed dismissively: "Morons," he murmured, addressing the press in general.

"Are you okay?" John asked. If Sherlock missed the opportunity to slag off a journalist, he was not up to his usual form; probably still tired.

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied, "just this lengthy and exhausting case. Mrs Hudson went straight into her kitchen after seeing me just now. I must look starved."

"Well, you probably are," John mused,"when was the last time you ate?"

Sherlock sighed: "Irrelevant. So why did you call earlier?"

"I wanted to talk to you and hear how you were."

"Oh." He did actually seem taken aback. "I'm fine, as established half a minute ago." He seemed to ponder the matter for a moment. "How are you?"

"Fine as well. _Settling in_." John said, pointedly.

"Oh, right."

John could practically hear Sherlock reminding himself about the baby. He counted down in his head: 3-2-1-

"So how's... Mary? And the baby, how's the baby?"

"You don't even know her name," John stated, calmly.

"... You're disappointed."

"Well guessed, Sherlock. And I'm not saying _deduced_ , because this really was an easy one."

"Disappointed and angry."

"Bloody well yes, I am. You're my best friend and you didn't once call or visit- I have become a father, Sherlock, which is not something that happens to me every day, and I really wanted you to be involved. Is that too much to ask?"

"I was busy-"

"Even Lestrade sent a card, for heaven's sake!"

"Of course he did, considering that I was doing his work for him."

"Modesty really has never been your strong suit, hasn't it."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "I'm... sorry, John."

John exhaled audibly, pinching the bridge of his nose because he felt exhausted all of a sudden: "That's a start," he said quietly. "And I'd very much appreciate it if you came by and met my daughter."

Again, there was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds: "I will. How about next Sunday?"

"Today's Monday."

"I know."

"That's nearly a week."

"I know."

"You've just solved a case, why don't you come by sooner? Tomorrow, after you've rested a bit- and ate, if only to make Mrs Hudson happy?"

 

Sherlock hesitated. John didn't know what had happened during the past week, how close a shave it had been. How he, Sherlock, looked right now. He was however aware that his status as John's best friend meant he couldn't simply push the doctor away as he'd ordinarily have done in such a situation.

He didn't want to compromise said status, and he'd learned the hard way what it meant to lie to John. How much hurt it was capable of producing, on both sides.

He simply couldn't find it in him to further affront his friend, so he heard himself agreeing, hoping he didn't sound too reluctant.

 

When they hung up, he realized that he still didn't know the name of John's daughter.

 

 

**To Be Continued**

 

Thank you for reading. Please leave some feedback.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

**Peanuts**

Part 2

 

 

Mrs Hudson kept tutting while she busied herself at the stove. That silly boy, to risk his life in such a fashion- it was no surprise that he had shown up the way he did, though of course, because she hadn't suspected anything, she had been shocked nevertheless.

That nice Detective Inspector Lestrade who had given Sherlock a lift home late the previous night and had accompanied him into the house seemed sufficiently contrite when the old lady, after hearing what had transpired, had given him a sound verbal scolding. "You're not even paying him for what he's doing," she said accusingly after Sherlock had excused himself and disappeared in the bathroom, "it's not decent to put him in jeopardy like that."

"And who's to stop him?" Mr Lestrade had defended himself. "It's not that I forced him at gunpoint to do it, you know?"

"Yes, yes, I know," Mrs Hudson had hissed, but she needed to direct her anger at someone, and he was the only one who was available- she didn't count Sherlock in, since he had hopefully learned his lesson.

"Look, I'm sorry," Lestrade had said, and it had sounded honest, "I'll do my best to prevent a repetition, okay?"

Grudgingly, she had shrugged her shoulders, not quite accepting it even though she knew he was right- if Sherlock had set his mind on something, he was unstoppable.

"I've got to leave now," Lestrade then said, "will you two be all right?"

"Of course we will," Mrs Hudson had all but ushered him out. "Off you go, we'll be fine."

He seemed glad to escape.

She hadn't seen much of Sherlock after that; he had emerged from the bathroom in his nightclothes and dressing gown and had been unwilling to talk, looking absolutely knackered.

* * *

In the bright sunlight of the following day, he appeared much worse for wear. The skin on his left temple and towards his left eye was swollen and sporting various shades of reds and blues, contrasting starkly with the white steri-strips which held the wound near his hairline together. The left side of his nape was covered by the white gauze of a large square dressing, only partly visible because most of it was hidden by his shirt.

His right hand and wrist were bandaged. Worse than the wounds however was how gaunt he looked; she had already figured out that he had not been investigating a case in Yorkshire, as he had told her before he had disappeared in the previous week; whatever he _had_ been doing during all that time, it couldn't have involved eating.

Mrs Hudson, after checking on him upon hearing him putting the kettle on, set straight to work: she'd do her best to get some flesh back on his bones.

* * *

On the following afternoon, Sherlock took a cab to the house in Notting Hill which belonged to the Watsons. Strictly speaking, it belonged to Mary, but he doubted that she was insisting on that.

When he pressed the doorbell, a bark answered, followed by Mary's voice who was shushing Gladstone before opening the door: "Sherlock, hi! Come in!" She was nearly toppled over by Gladstone, now one and a half years old, who enthusiastically greeted the guest by wagging his whole body. Sherlock bent down to stroke him, which wasn't a very good idea since it made him slightly dizzy.

When he straightened up, Mary got her first good look at him: "What happened to you?" she asked, visibly appalled. Sherlock shrugged- another less than brilliant idea, as his nape confirmed, and did his best not to wince subsequently: "Things got a little heated," he said evasively. He knew he was not going to escape John's professional scrutiny, and he didn't want to have to explain twice. Preferably, not at all.

"I see." Mary clearly noticed that he was uncomfortable talking about it, and didn't ask further questions.

"You look well," Sherlock said while he took off his coat and, because it was quite warm in the house, his scarf too. It wasn't entirely true; she looked tired and wasn't dressed as meticulous as usual, but if Sherlock had learned one thing about women, it was that they liked to be flattered a little.

"I am well," Mary said, smiling. "Apart from the lack of sleep. John's just been changing the baby," she added, leading the way upstairs. "They're in the nursery, first door on the right. I'll put the kettle on." With that, she turned around and went back downstairs while Gladstone followed Sherlock.

* * *

The detective, who had so far been having trouble putting the image of John together with a baby, stopped in the doorway when he saw his friend, appearing to be closing the buttons on a romper suit. From his vantage point, he could only see a tiny, kicking foot clad in soft yellow.

John now picked the baby up and turned around, obviously having heard Sherlock. The smile on his face faded a little when he saw his friend's injuries, but he didn't say anything yet. He just beckoned the detective with his head to come closer: "Sherlock- this is Maya. Maya, this is Sherlock. I doubt that you may call him 'uncle', though."

Sherlock shot John a glare before concentrating on the infant in front of him. She was tiny and rosy and still had the slightly bent posture of a newborn. Her head was sporting a thin layer of light, very fine fluff which might later change into hair. Her eyes were tightly closed while she waved her fists around, making small snuffling sounds.

"Hello," Sherlock said, cautiously, and then wondered why he felt compelled to talk to a baby. At the sound of his voice, Maya opened her eyes, staring at him unfocusedly; her irises were of a dark blue.

"Sit down," John said, motioning towards a rocking chair which was occupying a corner by the cot. "You can hold her."

"No, thank you."

"Come on, don't be such a spoilsport."

"I can't." Sherlock held up his injured hand for proof, but John just shook his head: "You can."

"I don't want to."

"Why?"

"I'll drop her."

"You won't drop her."

"Why is it so important to you that I hold her?"

"Because I want you two to bond."

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, though he knew the situation was similar to their conversation on the phone: he didn't want to hurt John. So he sat down, gingerly, and John made to give Maya to him: "Hold your left arm like this so that her head is supported."

Sherlock could feel his neck protesting ever so slightly again, but he didn't heed it as he suddenly had a warm, wriggling bundle in his arms. He hadn't expected Maya to be quite so heavy; it was rather extraordinary, considering the minuscule head and extremities- her fist seemed smaller than a golf ball. She was still staring at him, snuffling a little and now kicking her feet again.

He instinctively reinforced his grip around her very gently; who knew how quickly those small bones could break if he did indeed drop her. He wondered if he had any books on the subject in which he could look that up. Maya grabbed a bit of his shirt and was holding on to it tightly as if demanding that he keep his focus on her, and Sherlock found he didn't mind.

 

"I like the name," he said, not even noticing that he had lowered his voice a bit. He had of course asked Mrs Hudson, who had not only told him the name of the baby but also had kept gushing about what a cute little thing it was and how she could tell that Maya was going to be a beauty one day.

"It was Mary's grandmother's name," John told him. "Her middle name is Victoria, after my grandmother."

Sherlock hummed: "Sounds good. Regal."

"Shut up."

* * *

They were distracted by a loud sigh from the door; it had come from Gladstone, who was sitting on the threshold and obviously getting bored.

"Good boy," John said. "He's not allowed in here," he added. "Will you be okay for a moment so I can find his toy?"

While Sherlock still considered this, John was already leaving the room. Sherlock stared after him, then turned his attention back to Maya, who had in the meantime stopped wriggling. She was still making those content little snuffling sounds and Sherlock wondered what might be going on in her head.

Experimentally, he lifted her up a bit higher, despite his neck's protests, and took in her scent; she smelled... clean, somehow. Not at all what he'd have anticipated.

It was furthermore a strange thought that this baby was a mixture of John and Mary, a fusion of their genes. So far, one couldn't tell whom she resembled more, but it'd be interesting to see in a few years' time.

 

Unexpectedly, Maya opened her mouth and keened a little, which was rather alarming.

"It's okay," Sherlock said, "don't cry."

When the keening got louder, Sherlock experimentally moved his arms a bit, imitating a rocking motion, which seemed to appease the baby. He was nontheless relieved when John came back, though the feeling dissipated quickly when he heard John's next words: "I was going to take a picture of you and Maya," he said, holding up a small digital camera, "if that's okay."

"Sentiment, John."

"Yes." The doctor wasn't in the least perturbed by Sherlock's disdainful tone. "Still, Maya might want to have it one day."

"How do you know that? Maybe she and I won't get along at all."

John pursed his lips: " _Or_ we could skip this debate and just get it over with."

"I'm not exactly presentable, am I?" Sherlock asked, irritably.

"I'll take a profile picture then, from the right, that should hide the battleground."

Sherlock huffed: "Your father think's he so funny," he muttered, and as if on cue, Maya smiled at him for the first time. Before he could stop himself, Sherlock found himself smiling back. The whole situation was so extraordinary in its novelty that John's taking pictures went entirely unnoticed by the both of them.

* * *

A few minutes later, Mary shouted from downstairs that tea was ready.

John took Maya again, and Sherlock went into the hall to fetch a tote bag he had brought and left with his coat, then joined the Watsons in the kitchen. He gave the present to Mary: "Belated congratulations," he said.

"Thank you, sweetheart," she said, and John secretly marvelled at the ease with which Sherlock stopped himself from cringing at the name and also at the fact that he didn't once reprimand Mary for it. She didn't seem to care when he outrightly scowled at her the first few times, and Sherlock gradually grew accustomed to it. Which certainly didn't mean he _liked_ that someone else than Mrs Hudson was using terms of endearment on him; it rather was a testament that he was making an effort, which John highly appreciated.

 

The present was a handmade Winnie-the-Pooh chess set, made from wood and fashioned after the original drawings by E.H. Shepard. It looked precious and expensive.

"That's lovely," Mary said, opening the box and admiring the individual pieces, "Oh, here's Piglet..."

"I was looking for a jigsaw puzzle," Sherlock said, "since it is very important for children to develop their cognitive skills. All they had was a ridiculous Disney version of Pooh though. A disgrace."

"She'll love these," John said, "she'll probably even learn how to play chess."

"That's the inten- oh, I see." Sherlock gave his friend a mock smile. "Ha ha."

* * *

After tea, Mary took Maya out in her pram, taking Gladstone with them. John and Sherlock went into the living room where John had already lit the fire in the fireplace.

"Why did it have to be Pooh?" John asked.

"It's a classic," Sherlock replied evasively.

His friend however folded his arms and looked at him sternly: "And?"

"And I like it." His grandmother used to read it to him when he was little, and he had loved the voices she had given to the characters, especially Eeyore.

John, realizing he was not going to get any more information out of Sherlock for now, focused on his friend's battered appearance instead: "Fine. Let's talk about something else."

"Oh joy." Noticing John's pointed looks, Sherlock braced himself for the interrogation.

o

**To Be Continued**

o

Thank you for reading. Please leave some feedback.

o

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

**Peanuts**

Part 3

 

 

Though John did not possess his best friend's deductive skills and certainly didn't strive after those, he wasn't a bad observer at all. He had noticed how measured Sherlock's movements were and that he tried not to turn his head to the right. He also sat a little stiffly, keeping his torso as upright as possible. That and the fact that he had several injuries which he couldn't hide, as well as the dark smudges underneath his eyes and his rather pallid complexion, told John that Sherlock probably had a very good reason for not getting in touch during the past two weeks.

It annoyed John to no end that he actually felt a pang of guilt for not having been there at that, when it actually should have been the other way round- if anything, Sherlock should be feeling guilty.

 _Really, John_? His inner voice asked, mockingly. _In which universe exactly did_ you _wake up today_?

Sherlock seemed to know what was going to come, for he was avoiding looking at his friend and fiddled with the hem of his jacket with his good hand.

John sighed: "Is this why you didn't want to come by?" He nodded towards Sherlock's battered face.

Sherlock still looked at his hand: "What do you think?"

"I think it is. And it is also the reason why you were busy for the past weeks. How lengthy exactly was that case, Sherlock? And what happened to leave you looking like this?"

Sherlock sighed. "You've read the papers. The easiest way to investigate those murders was to infiltrate their ranks."

"You mean, go undercover?"

"Yes. We'd never have made the connection to the main ring otherwise. So I told Mrs Hudson I was going to investigate a case in Yorkshire and did exactly that."

"Why you? Don't the police have trained professionals for something like that?"

Sherlock's voice sounded a little pained when he answered: "I know my way around certain dealers and other ghastly people better than any of them, John."

Oh. "But something went wrong."

"Yes. Someone recognized me from a long time ago and ratted me out, as they say. Thank God no one made the connection to the ongoing investigation, they thought it was merely about the drugs and that I was on my own. Anyway, I nearly ended up in a tunnel somewhere under Southwark."

* * *

He didn't tell John that it had been a little more than that. If Lestrade hadn't caught up in time (and he had, thanks to meticulous planning ahead and Sherlock's agreeing to carry a top notch tracking device), Sherlock would have died.

"Why, what happened?" John's voice was low since his mouth had gone dry.

"A fight."

"Between..."

"A few of the dealers' lackeys and myself, obviously. They tried to beat me up."

"And you got out of that?"

Sherlock gave an indignant huff: "Of course I did. They underestimated my close combat skills."

Or, to be more precisely: Sherlock had been lucky. They followed him and attacked him without warning, which also meant they didn't search him before. He had had a few usefuls gadgets in his pockets (apart from indeed possessing the odd skill and whichever Judo techniques were still sticking), and it had been sheer good fortune that the chain one of the thugs was brandishing got caught in an iron grid; before he could pull it free and do any harm with it, Sherlock landed a good kick against his windpipe. He didn't fool himself into thinking he could really take out all five of them, so when the first opportunity arose, he ran for it. He had memorized the system of tunnels, which was working in his favour, since he knew where he could hide.

His escape was only a small victory, though; he had climbed down what appeared to be a manhole providing access to the tunnel below, and the last few iron rungs had come out of the wall under his weight, the stone holding them being brittle from the constant moisture. There was no way to get out; not with the injuries he had sustained, and not while they were still looking for him anyway.

It was ridiculous, he kept thinking while he waited, cold, in pain and miserable because of the latest developments, that he was trapped in a damp old sewer deep underneath the city and couldn't do anything about it for the time being. He could hear the water in the tunnel underneath and only hoped that the grid he was standing on didn't give way as well.

It had taken two days to find him and get him out without blowing the whole operation, and those two days had been neverending and dark. At least the tunnel didn't get flooded, but Sherlock had had to get his tetanus shot renewed afterwards, and he had insisted on taking a shower to get rid of the smell.

* * *

John pursed his lips; he clearly wasn't satisfied with Sherlock's cryptic answers. There was obviously a little more to it than the detective was willing to tell; John was going to find it out one way or other, but he was aware that it'd have to wait.

What's with your hand?" he enquired instead.

"Partially fractured."

"Hm. And your neck?"

"Knife. Only superficial though."

John's expression darkened nevertheless. "And your left side?"

This time, it was Sherlock who sighed. Of course John'd notice. "Also a knife," he admitted.

The doctor folded his arms and shook his head, but didn't say anything. Which was actually a little worse than having him shout. Sherlock involuntarily tensed.

"You have to be more careful," John said slowly when he finally spoke. "I can't always be there with you, Sherlock. As much as I'd like to have your back at all times, it's just not doable anymore."

Unspoken regret was palpable in the room, emanating from both men.

"I was careful," Sherlock eventually insisted when he couldn't bear the silence anymore, stubbornly lifting his chin. "Things like these just happen."

"Only if you let them." John was adamant: "You have got to stop taking such risks when you are on your own, Sherlock. For me, for Mycroft, but most of all, for yourself."

Sherlock huffed: "You don't have to lecture me," he said, wearily, "Mycroft already took care of that."

During Sherlock's three-day stay in the hospital, his brother had visited far too often in the detective's opinion, each time berating his younger sibling for his recklessness.

"And he's damn right to do so," John replied, "considering how you're looking." His expression softened a bit as he beheld his friend now, affection visible in his gaze: "I want you to be well. That's not too much to ask, is it."

Sherlock had to look away. It was a lot to ask nowadays, but he didn't want to let John know that. He had so far managed to maintain the image of doing fine on his own, of being content with how things were. If there was no happiness to be had for him, at least John deserved to lead a good life. He had suffered too much because of him already, Sherlock couldn't allow his friend to be drawn into his own personal darkness.

"I suppose it isn't," Sherlock therefore conceded.

"Good, now that we have established that," John got up and went over to a cupboard, "I insist that you'll stay for dinner."

Sherlock didn't mind; he was actually quite content not to have to move too much, and he couldn't play the violin either at the moment. John came back with two glasses of sherry, one of which he handed his friend, sitting down on the sofa with him.

The detective reminded himself why he had come here in the first place: "To Maya," he said quietly when they raised their glasses, eliciting a smile from John.

* * *

"Why didn't you call me?" John asked after a stretch of companionable silence. "I'd have come."

"I know." Sherlock slowly gyrates the glass in his hand, watching the remaining drops of liquid roll over the smooth surface. "Your place was here, though."

"Could I maybe decide that for myself the next time?"

"You just said yourself that it's impossible for you to be there as often as you'd like."

John shook his head. "I could at least have visited you in the hospital."

"How did you-" Sherlock didn't manage to stop himself in time.

John looked triumphant, because it had been a shot in the dark. "How long?"

"Three days."

"Remind me to have words with Mycroft. _And_ Lestrade."

"I forbade them to call you."

* * *

Sherlock continued to fiddle with the hem of his jacket. He'd been expecting this, of course he had; John had never hesitated to run along with him, had never once paused because of whichever danger might lie ahead. Yet whenever he wasn't directly involved, he tended to berate Sherlock, giving him the feeling that he was unable to look after himself.

Sherlock once more realized how far-reaching the effects of a friendship could be, how deeply one's own actions affected the other. Before John, he had never had friends, had had no way of knowing that being a friend brought a new kind of responsibility; it was complicating things. And yet, Sherlock wasn't prepared to give their friendship up and go back to being on his own. He highly valued John, and it undeniably went both ways.

It was still difficult to see John in this different universe of his however. Sherlock knew he had to try, because being a friend of someone who had just become a parent meant one had to respect certain unspoken boundaries, such as calling on said friend when he was needed elsewhere.

It had been uncomfortable, to say the least, and difficult not to have John there with him during the job. Together, they'd have been successful; they'd have been able to fight back.

The hospital had been even worse; Sherlock had been too depleted to stand a chance against Mycroft, and whenever his brother hadn't been there, he felt cold and alone and actually craved some sympathy (he was sure that this was something which John had brought out in him). He couldn't ask for Mrs Hudson since she'd have been scared half to death.

Not allowing himself to contact John, the only person who'd probably have kept relatively calm and would have spared Sherlock a reproval for the time being, the only one in fact whose presence would not only have been tolerable but even eligible, had been strangely distressing.

Of course, John still was the same reliable man Sherlock had gotten to know. He'd have tried to be at two places at once, and he'd have worried, which was why the detective had refrained from bothering him.

* * *

"That's not going to stop me and shouldn't have stopped them either," John said, after a moment of contemplation, as if attempting to prove the last point.

Sherlock subdued a sigh, rubbing his good eye with his left hand. It was tiring to keep up appearances, especially here; it felt like being thrown into a play, aware that there were certain lines that had to be spoken, certain postures to be assumed, expressions to be arranged.

At least this was what it felt like from the outside. Whenever Sherlock was at home or anywhere else, the John-and-Mary-ness in this house seemed solid and impenetrable. Which wasn't at all how it felt like when he was here, on the contrary. For one, right now he was sitting opposite the familiar John-in-Baker Street. Apart from that, he'd never been anything other than welcome.

And yet to Sherlock it seemed dangerous to be drawn into the cosiness of the place. The normalcy suddenly was addictive; who'd have thought.

* * *

John regarded his friend closely, aware that he wasn't as well as he pretended to be. He knew Sherlock well enough to read him a little easier by now, and he was concerned about the way his friend looked whenever they met recently; as though he was being held up by invisible strings. He still possessed his natural grace, but he hardly ever seemed at ease.

He was unhappy, John realized with a pang of sadness, sensing that this state had taken hold of Sherlock the moment he had been forced to step off the roof of St. Barts. Ever since then, his life had repeatedly been toppled over, and it was very possible that he had still not regained his proper balance.

"You needed me and I wasn't there," he heard himself saying.

Sherlock looked up in surprise: "You were needed here," he repeated after a moment of stunned silence. "Which is fine, John."

Except that it didn't feel fine. And yet there wasn't anything John could do about the fact that Sherlock was right.

 

 

**To Be Continued**

 

Thank you all very much for reading. Please leave some feedback.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

**Peanuts**

Part 4

 

 

"You're brooding," Mary said to John a few days later when they were having tea just after he had come home from work.

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are, and it started after Sherlock's visit."

"I'm just tired."

"Darling, I'm tired as well, but there is a significant difference between your frown and mine." She shifted the baby to her other arm: "It's about Sherlock again, isn't it." She didn't make it sound like an accusation, but her tone was serious nevertheless. "You're worrying about him."

John gave a snort, something between a huff and angry laughter: "You're damn right, I worry about him." He didn't need to specify; he had told Mary what had happened to Sherlock, or at least what little his friend had revealed, and had shared his concerns with her.

"It's not what he wants," John added now, "which is why he's trying to keep me at bay. And yet- you have seen him, Mary. He looked like death warmed over."

"I know." Mary regarded him for a few moments: "And I understand why you're worried. But you've got to understand what he's doing."

"He thinks he's bloody invincible. And he doesn't want to be _mollycoddled_." John snorted once more.

"You're wrong," Mary said softly. "He's trying to protect you, if you ask me."

_You... machine._

_Friends protect people_.

John closed his eyes for a second. Was this ever going to stop haunting him? "I don't need his protection," he replied, stubbornly. "I just need him to be careful."

Mary shook her head: "You aren't any better than him," she said, amused. "And I think you're underestimating him, John."

She poured herself another cup of tea. "Seriously, why don't you talk to him?"

John frowned: "Because he won't listen."

"How do you know?"

"I know him. He can be amazingly pigheaded sometimes."

Mary only barely managed to keep a straight face.

John got up and circled the table, pressing a kiss on her forehead before lifting Maya from her arms: "Hello, princess," he murmured, holding his daughter tight for a few seconds and feeling much better afterwards, "do you also have an opinion on this, hm?"

Maya smiled at him toothlessly, and John fell in love with her all over again. "There, she's on my side," he said.

"She's not. She's saying you're just as silly as uncle Sherlock and would everyone please stop getting their knickers in a twist."

John gave Mary a stern stare, which she returned. "Sherlock's being a good friend," she then said. "It's probably not what you expected from him. And yet here he is, trying not to interfere with... all this."

"You're right," John said, downcast.

 

Mary chose her next words carefully. "You do know that I don't mind if you go with him, don't you?" she said slowly. "I'd expect you to be extremely careful, of course, but you don't have to refrain from working with Sherlock because of me. I never asked for that."

All of a sudden, John felt like an idiot. "I love you," he said hoarsely. "If we weren't married, I'd propose to you all over again this instant." He briefly looked down on his daughter: "And you have no idea how much it means to me. Sherlock's right, though. I can't be in two places at once, and it'd feel wrong to just take off, especially now that my leave's over." His face softened as he beheld his daughter: "I wouldn't want to miss anything, and besides... I'm not the only one who's tired. This is a fulltime job, you need breaks as well."

Mary once more marvelled at his loveliness.

"You don't need to worry about me," she said. "I'll manage, especially as long as I'm not working yet. We could get a help for the household, I've been thinking about that anyway."

"Yeah," John murmured, thoughtfully, "that might be a good idea."

"If Sherlock's as pigheaded as you say," Mary then proceeded, "you'll just have to be even more so."

"Just keep at it, huh?"

"Yes. Make him see that he can't get rid of you that easily. Make him visit more, drop by Baker Street on the way to or from work. It's no big detour."

"He is uncomfortable when things get too cosy."

"He'll have to deal with it. He's bound to be even more uncomfortable when he's lonely."

John pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers: of course she was right. It was doable, and he could be persistent when he wanted to. He really didn't know how he deserved such an understanding wife.

"And you?" he asked her, hesitantly.

"I," Mary said, smiling, "have long since discovered that I can't get rid of you."

Later that night, when they were lying in bed already, John wound his arm around his wife and nestled close to her: "Does it feel like you have to share me with Sherlock?" he asked, tentatively.

Mary turned her head towards him so that her breath was warm against his skin as she answered: "No. I know you're capable of loving each of us in their own right. Your heart is just that big. If I didn't know that, I wouldn't be here."

* * *

Sherlock sat in his armchair, which he had pushed close to the blazing fire. It was the only place which seemed to be able to keep him sufficiently warm when he was at home. Ever since he'd been rescued from the tunnels, he felt cold very easily. Watching the fire, as it had turned out on numerous occasions, was furthermore a very good way to calm oneself.

If he concentrated very hard, it could even drown out the hankering he increasingly was feeling at odd times again, something not even cigarettes would be able to satisfy. He knew he couldn't do it- if he relapsed into taking drugs, he'd despise himself. Worse, John would certainly not be as understanding and supportive as he usually was no matter what Sherlock did; he'd try to rescue his friend and eventually turn his back on him, if only to save himself from further disappointment.

Sherlock knew he was unfair towards the doctor, but he had to keep reasons like that in his mind, anything to make him stay in his chair, anything which would not result in him putting on his coat and hurrying out of the door in order to find a dealer.

It was strange, really, how things had turned out. Sherlock wasn't any longer content with the cases he solved, not even the last one. Lestrade was happy to have him back and seemed oblivious to the fact that Sherlock's heart wasn't in it, that he merely took cases to occupy himself these days. His ever-present boredom had given way to something else, something worse. He couldn't name it, but it was making the sheer act of getting up in the mornings a veritable effort. There just didn't seem any point, as was the matter with everything else.

He was lacking in reasons, Sherlock thought as he watched the flames consume the logs he had fed them. There was no one he belonged to, no anchor which might tether him to a welcome reality. He had had John, but now his friend was occupied with his young family. Sherlock however was floating aimlessly, and he didn't see an end to that in sight. How could he, when he couldn't even tolerate most people in their tediousness. He didn't _want_ to be tethered, at that.

He had allowed Mrs Hudson and John to breach his walls, even Mary, to some extent, but they were the exceptions. He needed to keep the rest of the world at bay if he wanted to stay sane. It was bad enough that he was drifting, he didn't need further distractions. On some days, it felt like he needed all his concentration simply for setting one foot in front of the other.

He hadn't felt like this in years; it had been like this when he had first become addicted to drugs, he remembered it well . At least the prospect of the next shot had held some new and unfamiliar excitement, if only in the beginning; later, the painful knowledge of what he was doing to himself had drowned out that notion. Still, and that was the worst, it had been something to look forward to, since it had been real whereas anything else had seemed wrong, colourless, dull.

It was pathetic, Sherlock thought morosely, to even think about going back to that state. And yet he couldn't help it. Once an addict, always an addict, a tiny voice in his mind whispered. He pulled his legs up and clawed the fingers of his uninjured hand into the skin just above the knee until it hurt; down in that manhole in the tunnels, he had still found himself wanting to live . Yet now, only a week later, he was having trouble to remember what it was exactly that he hadn't been willing to give up.

* * *

A tentative knock on the living room door pulled him out of his ponderings. He didn't want to see anyone, but before he could say something or just vanish, the door opened and Mrs Hudson peered inside.

The old lady noted with concern that her tenant was huddled into his armchair and looked desolate. There was no other word for it. She knew how it felt to be lonely, being no stranger to sorrow herself, yet somehow, for Sherlock it seemed to be worse. Of course she knew his history and tended to worry about what he might do if things became too much for him, but even without that- he always seemed strong and energetic, yet there was also a frail side to him, and it was showing now. He'd not be happy about it, so she tried not to let on what she had just seen.

"Sherlock, dear," she said, coming to stand next to him, "I'm going to make a roast tonight. Would you like to come and join me?"

Sherlock felt her care and affection washing over him like something liquid, simply because of her proximity and the warmth in her tone. It was comforting in a way he not often appreciated. It was also louder than the voice in his head and the empty whirring of his now useless brain. It was stronger than him, dissolving his armour with ease.

"I can't be alone," he heard himself saying, and the sound of his voice was wrong, too high-pitched and unsteady, sending a shiver down his spine.

Mrs Hudson hesitated for the slightest of moments, looking at him intently for a second before perching on the broad arm rest of chair and putting her arm around the young man's shoulders, gently pulling him towards her. Sherlock closed his eyes; he'd probably be appalled by his evident display of weakness later on, but right then, he couldn't bring himself to care. Mrs Hudson was warm and solid, a reassuring presence.

* * *

Later, when they were sitting on the sofa in her flat, watching TV and having some tea after eating dinner together, the old lady looked at her tenant from the side: "What is it that's bothering you, my dear?" she asked quietly. "Is it the case?" She gave the bruise on Sherlock's face a meaningful look.

 _It's John, as always,_ Sherlock thought. _I held his daughter in my arms, a living being, small, precious; even I could see that. She needs her father, and I know he'll be a good father. He'll worship her, spend time with her, won't make her feel small and wrong and stupid. He'll be there for her. I can't compromise that. I miss him, but she needs him more. It hurts, Mrs Hudson. I want to be his friend, but he won't stop worrying about me when he should be thinking about more important things. I need to keep out of his life. Somehow, I'm nothing but trouble._

He didn't say any of these things.

"Yes, the case," he replied instead, softly, without meeting her gaze.

Mrs Hudson shook her head, sensing that he wasn't telling the truth: "And?"

Sherlock tensed, but didn't answer.

His landlady reached for the remote and pressed the mute button, then turned her attention back to him: "You've been sad ever since he told you Mary was pregnant." It was a statement rather than a question, and it directly hit Sherlock's heart. A cold shudder ran down his spine.

"Sadder," Mrs Hudson added now, thoughtfully, "you've been sad before. You were able to hide it better, though."

Sherlock still avoided her gaze, but he was trembling ever so slightly. "It doesn't matter," he murmured.

Mrs Hudson's heart ached at the forlorn expression on his face. "I'll be fine."

"No, my dear, you won't." She rarely spoke to him like that, but she knew that he did appreciate honesty. "You're grieving." In fact, it seemed like a reversed situation: while Sherlock had been gone, it had been John Watson who'd looked like this.

"No, I'm not."

"There's no point in denying it," the old lady said, gently. "It's plain as day."

At that, Sherlock did look a little alarmed, meeting her gaze for the first time. His eyes were wide, mercurial, and he looked much younger than his actual years.

"There's also no point in grieving when he isn't dead, you know," Mrs Hudson then added, feeling bold. It had to be said though; Sherlock had been moping long enough now. She understood that he was having difficulties and that he was delicate in his susceptibilities, much more so than many others, but he hadn't once tried to pull himself together either.

He tended to indulge himself in his wallowing, which wasn't right: despite his apparent fragility he was young and healthy, he should be going out and do something about his loneliness, preferably nothing illegal. Yet if he continued like this, he might be relapsing into drug abuse, a thought she couldn't bear. She loved him with all her heart, she didn't want him to suffer any more than he already had.

He didn't say anything for a while, but the muscles in his jaw were working, and his posture was still tense.

"I don't know what to do," he said when he finally spoke, through clenched teeth as though he was having trouble to keep himself from shouting.

Mrs Hudson put one hand on his arm, waiting for him to continue.

"He's got a daughter now." Sherlock managed to say after a while, speaking quickly. "I don't want him to endanger himself, or worry about me when he should be having other things on his mind. That seems impossible though. No matter what we do, in the end, there's always a case. I won't ruin his life for him, but I can't stop working either." He was breathing as rapidly as if he had run.

Mrs Hudson shook her head: "He's your friend, Sherlock. You can't undo that to keep him safe."

Sherlock huffed.

"I mean it. And why does everything have to be about your work? In the past months, you and John have been to all kinds of outings, if I remember correctly. You've even looked after Gladstone a few times."

"Yes," he replied with barely subdued impatience, "and six out of eleven times ended with me getting a call from Lestrade. Invariably, John came with me when he could. Do you really think he'll refrain from coming along just because he's got his family now? The thrill of the chase, that's something _he_ 's as addicted to as much as I am." He sounded bitter.

Mrs Hudson pondered this for a moment: "He's old enough to make his own decisions," she eventually stated. "You can't keep him away if he doesn't want to. And we both know that he doesn't want to."

"Because feels obliged."

"Because he's your best _friend_ , you sod." Now Mrs Hudson sounded impatient. "You really have a knack for being melodramatic, my dear."

Sherlock snorted, but the old lady noted with satisfaction that a bit of colour had returned to his cheeks.

"He'll probably never stop worrying about you," Mrs Hudson now added, a bit gentler. "Not after everything that happened. But he can handle that, Sherlock. He's a doctor, and he's..."

"He's a good man." Sherlock's voice was low now.

"Exactly. As are you." She patted his arm. "Just don't let your ennui get to you, dear." She knew she was playing it down a bit, but honestly- hadn't anyone ever given Sherlock a proper telling-off before?

Sherlock fiddled with the hem of his shirt: "You don't know half of it," he muttered glumly. He was still glad to be with her, though. Her company and dinner had kept his mind off the more dangerous paths it had been on, and he felt a little better now. He still was ashamed that he had lost control of his emotions earlier, but it was bearable. Mrs Hudson knew him rather well, after all, she had seen worse.

"Just be careful," she now said, giving his arm a slight squeeze before turning the sound of the TV back on.

Sherlock leaned his head back: "Trying," he muttered.

 

**To Be Continued**

 

Thank you for reading. Please leave some feedback.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

Happy New Year to all of you, and as always, thank you all very much for reading/favouriting/reviewing!

 

* * *

This part contains a small spoiler for S03 Episode 01 "The Empty Hearse".

* * *

 

**Peanuts**

Part 5

 

 

On the following morning, John called round without notice. Sherlock actually preferred it that way, since it felt strange when his friend announced his visit on the phone or per email; he had _lived_ in 221B, for heaven's sake.

Sherlock was still in bed when he heard Mrs Hudson potter about downstairs; they had been up late, both of them dozing off in front of the TV at one point.

Tiredly, Sherlock burrowed deeper into the covers, half-listening to the sounds of his landlady preparing for going out. When she opened the front door, she let out a surprised little squeal which quickly turned into delighted laughter; apparently, someone was at the door. He could hear talking, but it was too distant and muffled to make out who it was. Sherlock was about to turn over when he heard some hurried pitter-patter on the wooden floor, then the door to his bedroom was being pushed open, and the next thing he knew, a heavy weight landed on him, followed by a cold nose against his skin. Gladstone.

"Get off," Sherlock said, irritably, simultaneously trying to shield the wound on his side and sit up. Gladstone however lay down across him, madly wagging his tail and trying to lick the human's face; the Dalmatian had long since decided that Sherlock was his friend.

"Get off, Gladstone," he repeated, pushing at the dog with his good hand. Gladstone took it as an invitation to play, nimbly getting to his feet and jumping to the side, causing a small earthquake on the mattress.

"No!" Sherlock finally managed to sit up and push the dog down. Gladstone looked as though this was a new game and he was trying to figure out the rules, standing by the bed and still wagging his tail, his ears perked up expectantly.

"Down," Sherlock said firmly, and Gladstone, though visibly disappointed, obeyed.

"Good boy." The detective lay back down. A few minutes later, he could hear footsteps approaching, then John knocked on the open door and peered in: "Morning."

"It was until your dog used me as a trampoline," Sherlock grumbled.

"I'm sorry about that. He knows he isn't allowed on the bed or the sofa, but _some_ one seems to have permitted it a few times, and that's why he keeps trying."

"Wasn't me."

John refrained from reminding his friend how he had found Gladstone on the sofa every time when he came to pick him up after Sherlock had looked after him, while the detective himself was perched in front of his microscope, or doing research online, and hadn't even noticed.

"How are you?" he asked instead, since Sherlock still looked a bit peaky and his voice had sounded hoarse right now.

"Fine."

"I'm actually surprised you didn't get a cold after two days in the underworld."

Sherlock glared at him: "You talked to Lestrade."

"I did, since you elected to keep quiet about it."

"You'd only have fussed about me."

"No, I wouldn't have, I'm not Mrs Hudson. Right now, however, I am going to make tea and breakfast."

"Is that why you are here?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes." John smiled and turned around; Gladstone followed him into the kitchen.

* * *

When Sherlock joined them a few minutes later, wrapped in his favourite dressing gown and looking dishevelled, John was making scrambled eggs with bacon, and the smell of roasting bread was wafting up from the toaster. Sherlock hadn't had anything at home, which his friend clearly had anticipated.

"You brought food."

"Yeah. Just like the old times."

"You needn't have."

"I know." John turned around: "I just thought it'd be nice to have breakfast together."

"Which is your very subtle way of making sure I eat."

"What exactly do you think is _subtle_ about this? Besides, I just thought it'd be nice to have breakfast together, and I didn't want to have to resort to eating thumbs or whatever else you have in the fridge."

"Don't you have to work?"

"Not before noon. And before you ask: Mary and Maya are fine."

Sherlock regarded him more closely: "You haven't slept much though."

"Well, it is different with a baby in the house. I've had worse."

"You could be at home, resting."

"If I'd be at home right now, I certainly wouldn't be _resting,_ I'd be up as well. Now stop making me sound like an old man. I am perfectly capable of spending my free time just the way I want to, thank you very much."

Sherlock wasn't convinced: "You don't have to feel you need to-"

"Seriously, Sherlock, _shut! up!_ " John turned around to him at these words, brandishing the spatula he was holding (which Gladstone was watching with rapt attention): "Why can't you seem to wrap your thick head around the fact that I simply want to spend time with you? You're my best friend, for heaven's sake, I bloody miss you!"

Sherlock subconsciously hugged himself, looking at a loss for words. Even for John it's rare to be this straightforward with him.

"I'm not very experienced in the whole friendship matter," he eventually muttered defensively.

"Apparently not," John all but grumbled, "for all your genius though, you could at least use some common sense."

Sherlock frowned, but kept silent. Longingly, he glanced over to his violin, but he didn't need to use his common sense to know that John'd not have taken it lightly if he had begun to play now, as the doctor was fully aware that Sherlock tended to use the instrument to wriggle out of unpleasant conversations.

John glanced at him and wondered whether Sherlock had already seemed so fragile before. He'd always been too skinny in the doctor's opinion, which had hardly been surprising considering his eating habits; these hadn't changed after he had come back, and the way he was looking right then only emphasized it, bringing out a frailty he usually knew to conceal.

Sherlock felt John's eyes even though he was fiddling with a teaspoon and avoided to return his friend's gaze.

"No need to worry about me," he heard himself mutter.

"So you've told me, repeatedly."

"And yet you felt compelled to come check on me and bring food."

John exhaled in a way that suggested he was getting impatient:"We've saved each other's lives, Sherlock. I have put up with all the gory things you kept in the fridge while we were living together, we did our laundry in the same machine, I know you've got a box with old toys hidden in your wardrobe. I've seen you drunk, drugged, ill, happy and whatnot." He didn't say dead, because that's still terrible. "We've been together much less lately, and right now you're looking bloody awful, all pale and battered. Do you really think I'd refrain from checking on you or making sure you're eating?"

Sherlock fidgeted, but somehow, he felt a little less unsettled.

John regarded him with obvious affection in his expression: "Git," he muttered, fondly.

* * *

It didn't take long for Sherlock to get used to having John around much more often from that day on; sometimes he accompanied him to help with a case if his time allowed it, on other days, they just spent time together in 221B (if not necessarily in the same room) or went for walks or, on rare occasions, went to see a concert or an opera.

John often brought Gladstone along and sometimes Maya. Sherlock was astonished to see how fast she was growing. Her father skilfully ignored the fact that Sherlock still felt awkward if not entirely uncomfortable with the infant and made him hold her or help with putting on her hat and overall before they went outside. The detective drew the line at pushing the pram, and John didn't insist.

Mary didn't see much of Sherlock during the first few months of Maya's life, but from what her husband told her, he was doing better. The two of them still obviously squabbled at times, judging by the way John's mouth was forming a thin line when he came home on such days. Furthermore, the doctor was still curious about things the detective wouldn't tell him, for instance what exactly he had done while he had been away, and it upset him that his friend wouldn't confide in him.

On the whole however, they seemed to have come to an understanding, or maybe John's patience simply outdid Sherlock's.

* * *

In the summer, the Watsons went on holiday to France for two weeks. John had instructed Lestrade to keep an eye on Sherlock and threatened to come after him if something happened in his absence, and the Detective Inspector, not for the first time in his life, rolled his eyes and asked himself what on earth he had done to deserve this.

He had however dutifully called Sherlock, even though the detective clearly saw through it and bluntly said "you can tell John I'm fine," even before Lestrade had said hello.

He accepted a barbecue invitation once John and Mary were back, sun-tanned and relaxed after a fortnight in the southern sun, but apart from that, Mary didn't see Sherlock again until the autumn.

 

On a late afternoon of a stormy day, she heard a car door slam outside, and moments later, the front door all but burst open to reveal her husband and his best friend, both of them soaking wet and dripping dirty water on the floor.

"Thames," was all John said (through gritted teeth) while he shooed away Gladstone, who was excitedly sniffing at his master's soaked clothes.

Mary immediately had a hundred other questions in mind, but those would have to wait; both men were visibly shivering and looking miserable.

"Stay where you are," Mary instructed, propelling herself into functioning, "and strip. I'll get you some towels."

She didn't get any verbal protest, as either John and Sherlock had already begun to peel off their soaked things with rather numb fingers.

 

When Mary came back with her arms full of towels, she could already hear them arguing while she was still on the stairs.

"... could have stopped, but no, Mr 'I'm known to be indestructable' has to jump in after them!" John was saying, clearly upset.

"He'd have gotten away if he had reached that boat, John," Sherlock replied calmly.

"So what!" Boy, he seemed really angry. "We'd simply have caught him later!"

"He had a plan how to escape from the country, there wouldn't have _been_ a later if he had gotten away."

"How do you know that? There's no way you could have deduced something like that!"

"But I did. It was easy, really, just one look at his bag and it was obvious. Furthermore, you didn't need to follow me into the water."

As they came in sight now, Mary actually had to bite back a laugh: John, only wearing his boxers, had assumed the posture of a tiger ready to pounce, whereas Sherlock was unbuttoning his shirt and seemed rather unperturbed, apart from the shivering.

"To me, it wasn't obvious," John fumed, "and I didn't follow you on purpose, I just couldn't stop any-"

He unexpectedly interrupted himself. Straightened up, staring at something Mary couldn't see, and then his face contorted for a moment. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, before looking at Sherlock again: "What's that?" he asked, his voice suddenly void of its former strength. In fact, he seemed to have to fight against losing his composure right there and now.

Sherlock sounded evasive: "It's nothing," he murmured, turning sideways a little.

Mary, sensing that whatever was going on needed to be resolved between the two of them, put down the stack of towels and quietly backed away again.

"Thanks," Sherlock said, though he didn't reach out to take one. He stayed exactly where he was, apparently unsure how to proceed in the face of John's... anger? Disbelief? Sympathy? He looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

The doctor now moved towards his friend and raised one hand. Sherlock flinched as John touched his shoulder, but didn't resist as he turned him around to have a look at his back.

The last time John had seen it bare had been at Buckingham Palace, a long time ago. Sherlock's skin had been pale and smooth, unblemished. Now however, it was full of scars.

 

**To Be Continued**

 

Thank you for reading. Please leave some feedback.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you all very much for reading and reviewing!

* * *

Definitely containing spoilers for season 3 now. Ignores HLV however.

* * *

 

**Peanuts**

Part 6

 

John swallowed as he took in what looked like a landscape of violence, and he suddenly felt his eyes brimming and himself shaking more strongly than before.

"What happened?" he whispered, for his voice would have broken if he had spoken any louder. "Sherlock- what happened while you were away?"

"It's not as bad as it looks," Sherlock replied feebly, but John shook his head: "Tell me," he demanded, a little more vigorous as he felt his anger coming back, "I need to know."

Sherlock hesitated before answering: "I was dismantling Moriarty's network. There were... complications."

"Compl-" John was breathing hard and nasally, a sure sign that he was having trouble to contain himself. " _These aren't complications_ , Sherlock. This looks like... it looks like torture."

Sherlock tilted his head very subtly; there was no point in denying it.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only audible sounds were John's heavy breathing as he tried to reign in the emotions which were assailing him, and the rain which was pattering against the windows now.

Eventually, John let go of Sherlock, turned to grab a pair of towels and handed Sherlock one of them. The detective gratefully wrapped it around his torso.

* * *

Half an hour later, both of them had taken a shower and were sitting in front of the fireplace in the living room, John wearing a track suit, Sherlock a pair of slightly too short sweat pants and a soft jumper which actually belonged to Mary. Who had brought them a pot of steaming hot tea and had tactfully disappeared again.

John, who had been staring into the fire, silent, jaw working, looked up and at Sherlock after a while: "Please," he said, not sounding angry any longer, only tired. "Tell me."

"What difference would it make if you knew?" Sherlock asked, avoiding his friend's gaze.

John shook his head: "All the difference in the world," he muttered. "Two whole years, Sherlock. ... Lost years. I'd at least like to know what you did during that time. As I've told you before." He sat up straighter: "And there's no need to protect me, you know I can handle it."

Sherlock dropped his gaze to look at his hand, flexing his fingers in a slow motion before nodding: "Well," he said, his voice as deep as it got. "If you really want to know."

John, listening with rapt attention and a varying range of dismay and concern, didn't interrupt him once. However, when Sherlock got to the part where he had been captured and subsequently beaten in Serbia, John became pale and very livid. Sherlock didn't go into detail and wisely hadn't mentioned Mycroft, which was probably a blessing for his older brother, since John looked as though he could kill right there and then.

"My God, Sherlock," he breathed when his friend fell silent. "You... I had no idea."

"You couldn't have." Sherlock looks at his hands again: "Well. It was over after that, I was back in London two days later."

John nodded, but then he paused: "How long did you wait until you came to me?"

"I didn't wait. I came to you straight away."

"That night, in the restaurant." John's voice was quiet.

"Yes."

The doctor sounded shaken: "God, Sherlock," he repeated, recalling how he had pushed Sherlock onto the floor. It must have hurt, but Sherlock hadn't said a thing. And on top of it all, John had injured him even further at that.

"God," John muttered, once again, running his hand over his face. At least he didn't apologize, Sherlock thought, for it would have meant that he in turn would have had to do it as well, and the situation was awkward enough already.

 

On some days, it was difficult for him to keep the memories at bay. He hated losing control, and his brief captivity in Serbia belonged to his darkest moments. He'd never felt so defenseless, and yet he'd been aware that he'd die there if he didn't find a way to help himself. So he had tried to deduce his interrogator, hoping to find something, _any_ thing he could use.

It had been made difficult by the pain; astounding, really, how _distracting_ pain could be, but it had slowed his thoughts considerably, making it nearly impossible to deduce the man and find the correct Serbian words to translate his findings. "Coffin maker", for heaven's sakes, wasn't exactly a phrase for your standard holiday beginner's course after all.

The beating hadn't been the worst, however, Sherlock mused now, subconsciously glancing at his wrists. It had been the fact that he'd been chained to the walls. That in itself had put a considerable strain on his body, and in the end, when he had indeed gotten the Serbian to leave, he'd barely been able to stand. It had in fact taken all his willpower not to black out. He subdued a shudder; usually, he didn't allow himself these thoughts.

 

John seemed to sense that Sherlock was uncomfortable, and the last thing he wanted was to make it worse; rather abruptly, he therefore changed tack.

"If you had told me all this right away," he said grimly, "I'd not only have given you a bloody nose for not taking me with you."

It worked; Sherlock looked taken aback rather than gloomy, as he had before.

"And just to make it absolutely clear," his friend continued, "I bloody would _not_ have said anything indiscreet. Not once."

Sherlock opened his mouth a few times, but couldn't seem to find his voice, which John took as an affirmation that he had successfully managed to change the focus of their conversation.

"Just so you know," he therefore added, feeling bold.

* * *

"What is it about Sherlock Holmes that make those who care about him automatically wanting to save him?" Mary asked John later, when they were lying in bed. She hadn't asked him what exactly had happened, but she could see that John was upset about something; once more, he was worrying about Sherlock for some reason.

He snorted now, sounding long-suffering: "He's the last person willing to be saved."

"And yet he needs someone to be there for him."

"Yep." With a sigh, John turned towards his wife and closed his eyes: "He's a bloody git. Still, I'd not exchange him for anyone else."

"I know. And he knows that as well."

"But he hides things from me," John muttered unhappily.

"Protecting you, remember?" Mary asked gently.

John opened one eye to peer at her: "Do you realize that you're always siding with him?"

Mary chuckled: "He charmed me. I'm sorry."

"Conspiring lot," John grumbled, closing the eye again. He couldn't really shake off the mental images his brain had provided while Sherlock had been talking; the only consolation he had was that it indeed was in the past now, and Sherlock was downstairs on the sofa (hopefully, if he hadn't changed his mind and gone home; John wouldn't put it past him to leave the house in the ill-fitting clothes he had borrowed), safe and sound.

* * *

Sherlock had not left but was staring at the dying embers in the fireplace. He was tired, but it took a while until he calmed down enough to close his eyes; he needed to concentrate in order to be able to do so. He wasn't at all sure how he felt about the notion that John _knew_ now, and the worst thing about it was that he'd have to wait to find out. Why did time move so slow when one's patience was at its worst? He sighed and closed his eyes, pondering the impossibility of time, allowing it to distract him from anything else.

When he woke up in the middle of the night, distraught by an unfamiliar wailing sound, he was lying on his side, and there was a warm weight pressing against the back of his bent knees. For a moment, he was disoriented, but he quickly realized that he was in John's house, the weight was Gladstone who had taken liberties and the sound was the baby who was crying.

Drowsily, Sherlock reached for Gladstone's smooth fur; with his hand on the dog's shoulder, he dozed off again.

* * *

John, despite expectations, had slept like a stone, hadn't even heard Maya in the middle of the night. He woke up early and got out of bed when he found he couldn't go back to sleep anyway, even though it was a Saturday and he didn't have to work. He let Mary sleep and got dressed, then went to check on his daughter, who was awake as well, quietly playing with her feet.

"Hello, princess," John said, bending over the crib, and his heart lit up when Maya smiled at him. He lifted her into his arms and kissed her, taking in her warmth, her scent, the happiness she gave him, and for the moment, all was well.

While he changed and dressed her, his thoughts strayed back to Sherlock, and he tried to imagine how his friend had been as a child. It was incomprehensible how such a small, innocent being could develop into such a mind-boggling rollercoaster of a man. John pondered this as he blew raspberry kisses on the soles of Maya's feet because it made her squeal in delight, as he tickled her tummy, as he closed the buttons of her little cardigan; Sherlock had once been a baby, delicate and precious, and his mother very probably would have been horrified if she had known about all the things which were going to happen to him, how dangerous a place the world could be, no matter if one was careful or not.

It was almost too much to bear thinking about, and he was sorely tempted to never let Maya out of the house again.

* * *

When they looked into the living room, they were greeted with a sight that admittedly did a lot to lift John's heavy heart: Gladstone had apparently decided that normal rules could be suspended when having an unexpected overnight visitor, and had joined Sherlock on the sofa. He was lying next to the detective, stretched to his rather impressive full length, his head on Sherlock's chest, one paw on his ribs. John simply didn't have the heart to tell the dog off, and Gladstone, who obviously was awake and also aware that his master had caught him, since he was moving his ears and brows ever so minutely, pretended not to be doing something forbidden at all.

When John quietly padded into the room, Maya made a few rather excited sounds when she saw the dog, who briefly wagged his tail in recognition but obviously wasn't ready to give up his comfortable position. Sherlock stirred at that, frowning even before he opened his eyes.

John sat down on the coffee table, settling Maya in his lap while his friend blinked at him a little groggily.

"Morning," John said quietly, pulling up the corners of his mouth. "You've got company."

Sherlock peered at Gladstone, who peered back innocently. The detective appreciated his cheek.

John's smile intensified for a moment, but Sherlock could see that he was about to say something, and he'd prefer to get it over with rather quickly, so he raised one eyebrow in question.

John sighed, but there was no point in ranting about the fact that Sherlock always knew one was going to do or say something before oneself did.

"I'll only tell you this once," he announced, searching for words before continuing: "Considering what you told me yesterday... I imagine even you might be having issues... Problems about how to handle it. You know about my PTSD, so... if you're experiencing something similar, you can talk to me. Or I could help you find some more professional help. I'm not going to pester you about it though, you're old enough to decide that for yourself. Just... keep it in mind, okay?"

Sherlock regarded him through half-lidded eyes: "Okay." His voice was very deep and sounded slightly surprised: "Thank you."

"You're welcome." John felt relieved. His gaze was attentive as it now roamed over his friend's face:"You know I don't tell Mary about these things, do you?"

"Yes," Sherlock briefly pondered this. "You can, though. I don't mind."

John shook his head: "Being married doesn't mean it's compulsory to tell each other _everything_."

This actually elicited a smile from Sherlock: "Doesn't it? Maybe I _should_ give it a try then."

John snorted, amused, before turning serious again.

"Are you?" he asked, quietly. "Having nightmares, I mean."

"Sometimes." Sherlock raised one hand to stroke Gladstone, "nothing too bad, though."

John nodded; it'd have been strange if it were otherwise.

"Well," he said, "you know..."

"I know." Sherlock avoided to look at John now: "I will."

With a funny little jolt of his stomach, John realized that Sherlock had given him honest answers without any of the evasiveness he usually employed when being faced with a direct question, and it made him feel utterly glad, for both their sakes.

"Right," John, who had been bouncing Maya on his lap to distract her from Gladstone, got to his feet: "Are you getting up? I'm making breakfast."

"I'm just having a déjà-vu," Sherlock told Gladstone, who flicked his ear as though he understood.

Chuckling, John went into the kitchen.

 

 

**The End  
**

 

This series will continue in a new story which is currently being written.

Thank you for reading. Please leave some feedback.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story can stand alone, it does however complement "Same Same But Different"- if you'd like to know more about how Sherlock copes with John and Mary being married etc. according to my headcanon, you should read that.
> 
> Gladstone is a Dalmatian here because I know nothing about Bulldogs.


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